


Me Megatron

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:31:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2076849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moral of the story is this: be careful who you reprogram as a Decepticon loyalist, because loyal to a Cause doesn’t mean loyal to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me Megatron

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eiseedoesit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiseedoesit/gifts).



**Title:** Me Megatron  
**Warning:** Death, torture, rape, slavery - all within a setting where Decepticons commonly accept it.  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Continuity:** G1, AU of the episode _Desertion of the Dinobots_  
**Characters:** Grimlock, Megatron, Soundwave, Shockwave  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Anonymous gift for Eisee Doesit. People giving each other fics is the cutest thing.

 

 **[* * * * *]**

 

He’s fed by hand.

The hand’s bigger than his face. There aren’t many mechs who are larger than him without venturing into triplechanger or Supreme frametypes, but Grimlock’s a custom frametype. He was designed to be big and strong. Megatron doesn’t know why the Autobots created their blasted creatures to be this large, but it’s only something he wonders about while distracting himself from the boredom of captivity or the varied humiliations of the same.

Shame burns in the bottom of his tanks as the Dinobot’s massive hand rests on his helm. It’s not from the contact, exactly. He doesn’t like the mech touching him, but he’s gotten used to it. Prisoners don’t get a choice about that. He’s traded complacency for the opportunity to leave the box in the brig he dreads, and none of the Decepticons scoff when he sits at Grimlock’s feet. Most of them would accept the condescending, possessive stroke of the Dinobot’s hand, too. It’s the winner’s right to use the loser how he wishes, and whatever else they may be, Decepticons are survivors. Being a toy beats confinement or disposal.

The hand tips his head back, however, and he knows what’s coming. He resists enough that his neck cables strum from the tension, but he’s learned to live with the swamping weakness of Cybertonium depletion. Between that and his bleating fuel gauge, fighting Grimlock’s superior strength is an exercise in futility. His head is pulled back. He’s given an expectant, amused look. 

Of all the humiliations forced on him, this is the one that stings the most. The starvation, chains, and physical abuse are no more or less than he’s inflicted on prisoners in the past. Prisoner abuse is something he authorized early on in the war. The more severe, the faster it killed morale and discouraged thoughts of rebellion. He expected worse physical treatment, honestly. Grimlock never struck him as having enough brain power to go beyond beatings and rape, but the Dinobot’s turned out to be full of surprises. Most of them aren’t pleasant for those he defeats. 

Megatron’s kept in perfect condition, brought in to the Constructicons for repairs after every beating and wiped clean of the less damaging methods of discipline Grimlock inflicts on him. The glossy polish of his armor makes him a weapon in the Dinobot’s arsenal. He looks the same as he ever did. The silver tyrant of the cosmos kneels before Grimlock, seemingly bound only by the chains around his wrists and throat. It's unnerving to see him so broken without a sign of the breakage on his gleaming finish.

It's an intentional thing. Megatron knows. He cooperates with it. 

He didn't at first, but trading good behavior for slight improvements on his situation turned out to be too great a temptation. He expected that part, anyway. It's almost official Decepticon prison protocol. Prisoners who buff their captor’s skidplates and do as they’re told without a fight are treated better than those who get stubborn.

If he wants to be let out of the punishment box down in the brig, he obeys. If he wants to _survive_ , he submits. Submission is the bargain he struck to stay alive, but alive and confined to a tiny box cell is just staying alive to be tortured.

Megatron has spent a lot of time in that box. Obedience is painful but an acceptable trade to escape it. 

The energon cube dangling from his _owner_ ’s hand isn’t part of the bargain. That's an extra tacked on for no other reason than to grind a point in. There is submission, and there is obedience, and then there is this bastard mutation of the two that rasps over his pride worse than either of the two do separately. 

He glares at the cube, seething. Handfeeding isn’t a prisoner procedure. This is a deliberate emphasis of his position.

He's a pet, not a prisoner. Prisoners are handled with a degree of professionalism and caution. The handfeeding makes it clear that the deposed tyrant doesn't even have that much status. He's not considered dangerous enough to be a prisoner. 

He’s been relegated to the position of Grimlock's pet. Toy, even. Toys are played with like this. 

He steels himself against the temptation of the energon cube. The bleeping from his nearly empty fuel tanks pitches higher, but he's not to touch the cube without permission. It's been beside Grimlock's berth for three days already, there to remind him that he’ll be fed if and only if he behaves himself. Grabbing and gulping it would have been...unwise. The temporary fullness in his tanks wouldn't last long.

If he wants that energon, he has to play his captor's game. And he does want it. He wants it badly. Grimlock deliberately brought him to the throne room for this, and even knowing what kind of hoops he’ll have to jump through to get it, he still wants it.

The hand on his helm leaves and scatters a pinch of glittering flecks across the surface of the energon, tinting the pink of pure energy with the smallest bit of green. Megatron's tanks lurch as _need_ gut-punches him. This is what obedience earns him, and what disobedience would deprive him of: Cybertonium. 

Cybertronians can’t survive without a certain amount of Cybertonium in their systems. Running low causes malfunctions, errors, breakdowns, and eventual death. Snatching the energon against orders would have filled his tanks, but he's spent too much time in the box to suffer through the consequences again. His systems would scream. A foolish impulse isn't worth the punishment his own body would inflict on him as his levels drop critically low. 

It's something he has too much experience enduring. The only reason the chains around his neck and wrists remain is because he's depleted. A lack of Cybertonium restrains him better than any chain. His levels have gotten so low he can't even stand up right now. The cube in Grimlock's hand will still leave him too weak to break the chains. 

That's how mighty Megatron is kept prisoner. That's how he was defeated.

That's how a fragging _Dinobot_ was able to take over the Decepticons. None of the mechs on Earth were in any shape to fight Grimlock off, much less take on the entire unit of Dinobots. The only ones on Earth who hadn't been collapsing into spontaneous transformations and dizzy spells had been the Constructicons. They were sent to Cybertron to retrieve Cybertonium in order to recharge the Decepticons helpless on Earth.

Something went wrong. Megatron still doesn't know precisely what. He knows the Dinobots attacked Shockwave on Cybertron, and he suspects the Guardian fumbled reprogramming them. 

He got too ambitious, probably. Instead of converting them into perfectly functional slave drones, Shockwave rewrote their minds into loyal Decepticons. Impressive as it might have been, reprogramming the Dinobots backfired spectacularly. Amnesiac laborers intended for the Cybertonium Pits came back to Earth as Decepticon warriors. 

The problem with reprogramming powerful mechs to follow the Decepticon Cause is that powerful mechs are still powerful when they wake up as Decepticons. There is nothing in the Cause itself that reins in that power. Decepticons take what they want. The Cause is about power and freedom. The more powerful a Decepticon, the more freedom he possesses. 

Grimlock is powerful. He's also ruthless. It's paired with an intelligence that most mechs underestimate. His appearance and speech patterns intersect with a perspective that goes counter to standard processing patterns. 

Reprogramming him into a Decepticon didn’t change any of that. He was just no longer limited by the Autobot morals preprogrammed into him by his blasted creators. The Dinobots were always inclined toward harsher methods than any Autobot used. It was one of the things Megatron admired about Grimlock. Still admires, if he ignores how those methods are turned on him. 

Stripped of the Autobots' morals and made over as a Decepticon, Grimlock returned to Earth as the most powerful mech on the planet. He had all the freedom that power gave him.

The Decepticons were near shutdown by the time the Constructicons returned to Earth. Grimlock planned it that way. He strode out of the space bridge to confront Megatron knowing that the silver mech was in no condition for a fair fight. That was fine, since Grimlock had no reason to care about making the fight fair. The Dinobots held off the pathetically weak attacks from the other Decepticons while Grimlock challenged Megatron for leadership of the faction.

Having no other choice, Megatron had accepted the challenge. 

He didn't win.

The entire time, from the opening of the space bridge to Grimlock's triumph, the Constructicons stayed a beaten, silent group, optics and visors turned away from the rest of the Decepticons. Megatron originally thought they were ashamed of their surrender, but thinking back on it, it seemed more of a curious mix of sympathetic pity and estrangement. They were distancing themselves from inevitable crushing defeat. 

He knows the feeling. 

The hand returns to stroke his helm, and he growls. It comes out a ragged sound of protest. 

He's protested a lot since Grimlock challenged him for leadership. He struggled when Slag and Snarl threw him into the brig. He yelled insults. He cursed. He demanded to be let free. He sneered at the new leader of the Decepticons when Grimlock had him dragged into his presence, but he learned early on to feign surrender. Then he learned unconditional surrender, unfeigned.

Grimlock is a gracious winner, but only if the loser does as he says. Megatron protests the petting; he doesn't fight it.

Pride has its place. It’s not going to stand between Megatron and his life.

It never has.

"Keep him alive!" Starscream laughed from the sidelines after Megatron finally conceded the fight. Conceded, yielded, and then, after the tricks he'd pulled after each false surrender failed, begged mercy from the Dinobot standing over him. "He looks good on his knees!"

Megatron would have told the Seeker to shut up, but he was too busy retching fuel into the dirt between pleas for his miserable life. Also because the flaming sword aiming for his neck paused at Starscream's words. Grimlock was a heavy weight on his back, massive foot pressing into the raw metal where parts were ripped loose. He wasn't going anywhere except straight to the smelter unless Grimlock so willed it.

"What you Starcream mean?" the Dinobot leader -- now Decepticon leader, since every trick Megatron had tried got him nowhere -- demanded. He stomped down a little harder when Megatron tried to crawl free.

Even weak from Cybertonium depletion and disgusted by Megatron's failure, Starscream managed a cocky grin. He crouched and tipped his head to the side to make certain Megatron could see him. "I mean that, as the new leader of the Decepticons, you should have a symbol of your status. What could serve better than the old leader on his knees before you?"

Cheek flat to the dirt, Megatron looked up at the Air Commander and hated him as much as he was grateful to him. Starscream knew what it was like to value life more than pride. His Second might save his life by humiliating him.

He knew that expression. Starscream didn't want Grimlock as leader any more than Megatron did. If the Seeker had to follow someone, he'd rather it be the tyrant he knew. The Dinobots were feral beasts, as far as he was concerned.

Megatron kept his optics on Starscream during the short, horrible pause while Grimlock thought the Seeker's words over. Any second, the Dinobot could decide to cleave him in two.

"Hail Grimlock," Starscream said, wary but smirking.

"Hail Grimlock!" the Decepticons cried. Most of them were greedily eyeing the Cybertonium and would do anything to get to it. The Constructicons were the only ones who said the words with any sincerity.

Megatron heaved enough to get his knees under himself and, still watching Starscream, bowed to the dirt. "Hail Grimlock."

He didn't get any of the Cybertonium. Starscream did. He was thrown into the _Victory_ 's brig until Grimlock wished to deal with him. Starscream took up service under Grimlock’s command.

Starscream's screams could be heard from the brig. 

The wingless Seeker bled out in the cell beside him. Grimlock, it seemed, didn't give second chances. Mutiny resulted in Starscream's wings being ripped from his back and welded onto what had been Megatron’s throne.

The ex-tyrant saw the new ornaments the next time he was dragged into Grimlock's presence. He’d been brought before the Dinobot multiple times since the fight, but this was the first time he didn’t protest. He was in the last stages of Cybertonium depletion shutdown, shaking and dizzy. He’d just watched his Air Commander die. The Seeker’s wings were under Grimlock’s elbows as the Dinobot looked down at him from the throne this time. 

Starscream had taught the new Decepticon leader what a suitably motivated mech would do to save his life, and the lesson was fresh in Grimlock’s mind. He seemed to be in the mood to test how badly Megatron wanted to survive.

Megatron learned from the example of his Second's greyed-out shell. He did what he had to.

He still does. The hand on his helm strokes him, and he growls without moving away from the touch. 

Grimlock chuckles at him. "You pet not hungry?"

It's a tease. Of course he's hungry. Grimlock keeps him on starvation rations, and the shaking from Cybertonium depletion has gotten worse the last two days. He can’t stand. He's barely able to stay sitting up.

Propping himself up against the throne like this makes him look like he’s leaning into the petting, but it’s either that or lying down at Grimlock's feet. Both positions make his lack of status obvious, but staying upright grants him a fraction of dignity in a thoroughly disgraceful situation. He's gotten used to being an example on a leash, but it doesn't get any easier. 

He turns his head as much as he can against Grimlock's hand and hisses through his teeth. The throne room is empty, but he's come to distrust that. Grimlock has a peculiar kind of canniness. Being allowed out his owner's quarters relieves the absolute tedium of captivity, making it almost a treat, but it comes at a price. Usually it means that he's to be paraded before someone. Maybe there's to be another video conference with Optimus Prime, or a gathering of the Decepticons. Another execution, if Skywarp didn’t learn his lesson from the last beating and violated the peace treaty again. 

None of it involves Megatron, at least not directly. He’s there to be seen. He’s Grimlock’s symbol of conquest. The more obedient he is, the better a symbol he is. It’s taken a lot of training to get him to the point of kneeling tamely at his master’s feet without a gag or blindfold, and he’s keenly aware of how his docile behavior enhances Grimlock’s position of power. 

Speaking of which. "You pet not want energon, me Grimlock give extra ration to him Thundercracker."

His tanks ping. "I want it," he snaps. "It's going through this ridiculous farce to get it that I don't want!" He’s being insubordinate, but he's not one of the Decepticons anymore. He's some perverse combination of pet, slave, and trophy. 

The hand on his helm smacks him upside the helm. It's a light tap for a Dinobot. Megatron's knocked sprawling, cursing softly as he tumbles down the steps leading up to the throne. 

"You pet forget you pet’s place," Grimlock says, but his amusement has an edge. The throne groans from his weight as he leans back, and the greyed-out wings bent into armrests remind Megatron that even a pet has limits. The visor watching him is Decepticon red, now, and Starscream didn't survive backstabbing their new leader. Grimlock plays the game by his own rules and destroys anyone who crosses him.

Survival is bittersweet. Megatron clamps his mouth shut on words he doesn't dare say and asks himself once again if this life is worth crawling for.

The only other option is death, so yes.

The chain around his neck tugs. He bows his head and follows the pull until he's kneeling at Grimlock's feet again. One of them taps impatiently. 

Megatron knows his cue, however much it turns his tanks. "I want it," he mutters through gritted teeth.

"You pet ask nice."

Ugh. The words singe his throat as they come out, but he says them anyway. "King Grimlock, may I fuel?" His forearms bend to bring his lips down to his owner's feet.

A grunt answers him. For a moment, he fears he'll be sent back to the brig and that torture box of a cell, the energon given to Thundercracker while he starves and shakes. It's happened before. 

It's been thirteen years. Thirteen years of begging for his fuel, groveling for his life, and learning how to please his captor. 

The Decepticons have spent that time prospering. Energy flows to Cybertron via treaties with the Autobots and, through them, with the humans of Earth. Grimlock doesn't care about the history of the war. He cares about the Decepticon Cause, and one of the primary goals of the Cause is the restoration of Cybertron to its Golden Age glory. Conquest of the galaxy will be addressed after that goal is reached, as far as Grimlock's concerned. 

Anyone who might have freed Megatron has been beaten down over the years, or is convinced by now that Grimlock is the better leader. Megatron wouldn't put it past the Autobots to be encouraging that opinion. Optimus Prime is a soft-sparked fool who looks at him with worried optics any time he’s present during video conferences, but the pair of black-and-white officers behind the Autobot leader won’t let their Prime sacrifice peace for the sake of Megatron. The only reason the war’s ended is because Grimlock overthrew Megatron, and they know it. 

Grimlock respects Optimus Prime enough to negotiate a treaty with him. The Dinobot utterly scorns the humans and disdains the Autobots in general. That attitude does a lot to reconcile the Decepticons to the idea of peace with the Autobots. Their new leader has no qualms about using the treaty for resources while at the same time making it clear he thinks everyone in the other faction is a wussy waste of metal. Grimlock’s blunt like that.

Restoring Cybertron to glory, using Autobots and other species for his own ends, and ruling by sheer might: he’s an ideal Decepticon. He's a living embodiment of the Cause as it's talked about, not as it’s been applied throughout the war. 

Megatron admires him for that. Hates him for it, but reluctantly admires him.

His conflicting feelings toward Grimlock make this harder. Submission and obedience shouldn’t ever feel right, but here it is. Some trained, broken, _defeated_ part of him agrees with everything Grimlock has done. It admits the Dinobot is the better leader. It agrees that he belongs to the winner.

So when he bends his neck, he squirms inside because that traitorous part of him believes Grimlock has every right to reduce him to this. He doesn't want to feel a twinge in his spark as his lips linger against one massive foot. He asks nicely, as ordered, "My king, please. I'm hungry." 

A treacherous glow of pleasure blooms in his chest at the tone of Grimlock's grunt this time. He did the right thing. For a pet, true, but -- slaggit.

"You pet come here. Me Grimlock want you pet's mouth, first."

"As you command," he forces out.

It's easy to hate this, but a sullen sense of right stays stubbornly in the forefront of his mind as he sits up. The Cybertonium weakness makes him shake and sway until he leans against Grimlock's leg, but even that whispers the dull glow of _’good pet’_ brighter. How many times had Starscream leaned the same way against his own leg? Starscream's weakness had come from the beatings he dealt the Seeker for attempted mutiny, but the parallel is there. Megatron is where he belongs. This is the winner’s right over the loser. Might makes right among the Decepticons, and Grimlock is the Decepticon leader.

Leader, owner, same difference. King, if that’s the word the new ruler wants to use. Nobody’s going to argue.

Megatron glares at red pelvic panels as strong, thick thighs spread to accommodate him wedging between them. Debatably, the worst part of this is knowing that he doesn’t have the strength to cause any real damage if he bites down. He tried.

He spent over two months in the isolation box down in the brig for it, unable to stand or lay down comfortably. The only light came from his optics. The only sound was the distant swoosh of water moving outside the hull. He was refueled when starvation took him offline, and nothing more than a few liters of energon at a time. The Cybertonium depletion shakes had him rattling so hard he popped cables and power conduits, which added another layer of nightmare horror to the slow torture. Two months of starving and shaking offline again and again repeatedly taught him a lesson in what he’s willing to do to survive.

Biting down won’t happen again. If he could bite Grimlock’s spike completely off, he still wouldn’t do it. It’s not worth dying over. 

Frustration has him tense, but he vents hard and leans in to lick at his master’s interface panel. It’s acquired a dusting of grit since he was last required to polish it so. It tastes unpleasantly like this mudball planet, but that’s a minor complaint. The spike behind it is a bigger problem, and one that he’s intimately acquainted with. His tongue presses flat to the panel and stays, hot against the metal. Grimlock rumbles, and Megatron can feel the ticking jump of hydraulic pumps activating. A spike is pressurizing under the panel. 

He presses his open mouth to the panel and exhales spent air. His tongue leaves a wide swath of oral fluid behind, smearing wetly over the plating, and his tongue slides over to trace the seams of the panel. It takes far too long to tease it open, but Grimlock likes to make him work for his dinner. Megatron’s well acquainted with the Dinobot’s quirks by now, and he knows how to cater to them. He nuzzles into his owner’s lap and brings his bound hands up to lay his fingers on the base of the panel as if he were actually eager to service the spike underneath, playing a pet cyberhound panting for a treat held out of reach.

He flicks his optics up to meet the heated gaze resting on him as the panel finally retracts. Grimlock likes to watch. He likes to see his defeated foes doing his bidding. It’s why Shockwave’s still alive, and why Soundwave is permitted to live. Watching his defeated predecessor coax his spike out feels almost as good as how Megatron pampers every inch once it’s out. Silver lips kiss the tip, and an experienced tongue slides under the head. The Dinobot’s visor narrows in pleasure and satisfaction at the show as he looks down the length of his body. Those silver lips part to wrap around the heavy, blunt weapon of a spike. It finishes pressurizing and stands proudly, freed from behind its protective panel.

Megatron tilts his head to run his mouth down the side. He’s too familiar with the weight of it on his tongue. He glances up to meet Grimlock’s gaze at the base, keeping his optics on his owner as he cups his hands around the spike and pushes it against his tongue as he licks up the other side. The quick circle around the tip when he reaches the end happens on automatic, practiced into instinct. He doesn’t even think about it. His optics drop to his work, and he pulls back to lap over the head. 

Fully pressurized, the thing’s three-quarters the length of his forearm. It’s an effort accommodating that, every time. It doesn’t matter how often he does it.

He rears up on his knees as he takes the spike into his mouth. His jaw strains as he works his way down it, sucking lightly on the head before inching down. It throbs over his tongue to the beat of Grimlock’s fuel pump and hydraulic system, and he catches on to the rhythm. His fingers stroke the base, hands pumping up as his mouth pulls back slowly, one-two-three, and sinks down for four counts. Back up for three, down for five, and further down each time until he’s midway down the spike. The tip nudges his intake.

He swallows in preparation for what’s next. It’s been thirteen years. He should be used to this, but Grimlock is too large and has no reason to make this easy on him.

Forgive him if he stalls. Thirteen years has given him time to pick up some tricks.

Raising his chin and maneuvering carefully to avoid scraping with his teeth, he goes down on the spike, rolling it against the roof of his mouth before it pushes into the clench of his fuel intake. The tight channel of his throat tubing creates suction as he pulls up enough to catch the tip against the roof of his mouth and go down again. The chemical sensors along the roof of his mouth are hard ridges and nodules that spark and click. Grimlock rumbles and spreads his thighs wider, hips thrusting forward a bit in obvious approval. Megatron makes sure to give him another look as he comes up. He meets the Dinobot’s visor right before going back down, pushing the spike with his tongue so it slides over the bumps and sends out sharp bursts of electricity. 

A second thrust rocks his head back, but he turns it into a smooth, sucking retreat before the spike does more than pop through his intake. He isn’t prepared for more than that, yet. 

One big hand comes down on his helm, ready to push him back down, but Megatron slips off the spike to run his mouth down the side. The delay gets an annoyed grunt, but he looks up at the Dinobot, making sure his owner can really _see_ his mouth sliding over the engorged pressure tubes. They bulge out from between the sensor rings, and he dedicates himself to lavishing attention on them. The hand on his helm relaxes, letting him work.

It’s sloppy work. Oral fluid leaks out the side of his mouth as he pushes in to single out tubes, lick between the sensor rings, and go after transmission wires. It pinches his tongue, but he forces it under one of the rings at the base, helm pressed hard into Grimlock’s pelvic plating as he tries to get the right angle to stimulate the inside of the ring. The purr of a powerplant kicking up a notch in Grimlock's chest and the static snap against his tongue tell him when he's found the right angle.

He spends some time licking there, amping up the charge. His tongue cramps from the tiring position, however, and he has to move on after some time. When he lifts his face away, he leaves a wet puddle of oral fluid on his master's plating. A small sound of surprise escapes him as the hand on his helm bears down, pushing his face back down.

He obediently laps at the spike's base, dragging his tongue where it emerged from the open panel. He can just fit his tongue between the last ring and armor plating, getting the occasional taste of hot metal from the vulnerable interface array hidden behind Grimlock's pelvic armor. Oral fluid smears under his cheek as he shifts around, licking where he's directed by the pressure on the back of his helm. 

Grimlock grinds his face down a second time before letting up at last. Megatron turns his helm the moment he’s released and runs his tongue through the oral fluid, tipping his chin up so his owner can see the wet shine of his lips, the smear across his face displaying his servitude.

It’s humiliating. Anger chases shame through his fuel lines in a flush of hot and cold. He looks like a piece of shareware eager for a payday and knows it.

He licks his lips anyway, letting his lips part to show how open and ready he is. It's a carefully calculated move that turns Grimlock’s visor dark and satisfied. 

The Dinobot puts his hand on his pet’s helm again, but this time to stroke over it. “Good pet,” he says, and Megatron turns his head into the petting.

Not because he enjoys it, although he wishes he could delete the traitorous thrill that shocks through his own interface array, but because the petting allows him to stall that much longer. The longer Grimlock 'rewards' him like this, the longer he has to wrap his hands around the spike and pump it. 

He dips down to pay attention to the tip as the hand leave his helm. He _is_ good at this. Desperation is a viciously effective teacher. He knows how to curve his tongue under the head as he bobs his head, raking soft, continuous pressure over the bottom edge of smallest sensor ring while rubbing the top edge against the roof of his mouth. The flat of his tongue pushes against the tip every few bobs, making a quick circle before he goes down. His cheeks hollow as he sucks in quick, sharp pulls, lips sealed around the tip, and then he pulls back to begin the cycle again.

The chain around his wrists is loose enough for him to wring his hands as he pumps the base, matching the pulse of hydraulic fluid inside the spike almost by instinct. His fingers slip between the rings, twist up, pop out from between them, and slip in again. Every second helps. The closer he gets Grimlock to overload before --

Before this. The hand on his helm returns. Fingers tighten over the back, and Megatron grimaces. 

His mouth is more compliant than his expression. The powerful hips in front of his optics thrust forward on the throne, and he loosens his intake as best he can. He still gags as the spike shoves in. The width forces his intake past capacity and stretches his throat tubing around it. Grimlock looks down at him, at the expression of choked disgust and borderline pain barely visible from under the rim of Megatron’s helm, and growls a bass laugh that jitters the spike in his throat. It tickles his gag reflex into helpless retching, and a muffled glorping sound comes from the ex-tyrant. Bound hands give a half-sparked push against the seat of the throne between Grimlock’s thighs, but hard hands grip him by the sides of his helm. 

Any resistance ends there. Megatron’s fingers curl back from the throne, and his shoulders slump in instant submission. He won’t fight. 

The Dinobot leans back in the throne, shoulders against the back while his hips stay thrust forward, and he lazily looks down his body at the scrunched-up face of his pet. Those silver lips are a glistening ring tight around him. He pushes them down to take in his whole spike. The whole thing, right down to his pelvic plating. Megatron’s nose presses under the armor right into his array, and hot bursts of air pant out around the obstruction. 

Due to the design of his altmode, Megatron’s main air intake goes through his mouth and nose. Right now he’s redirecting air flow through his secondary vents, but he’s struggling to cool his systems. The involuntary gasping motion is creating a gloriously pleasurable suction all the way down his throat, the fuel intake massaging the sensor ring stuck in it as it convulses around the too-big spike. Grimlock can see the mech’s throat distending if he tilts his head to the side a bit. 

Which he does, while Megatron tries not to cough around him. It won’t help. He knows it won’t help, but it’s hard to think reasonably as the spike lodged down his throat throbs to a different beat than his fuel pump. The sensor rings around swollen pressure tubes dig into his throat, hard segments catching and dragging against filtertrap frames deep inside him. Hook took out the actual filters -- broken through and useless at that point anyway -- but the frames are still there. They click hard and uncomfortable over the spike stabbing through them.

Megatron keeps his optics offline, needing the small sliver of concentration that allows him. He has to continually stifle the urge to cough his throat clear. He can’t close his mouth, he can’t even seal his lips around the spike, and his gag reflex has him all but throwing up. His tanks are empty, but he has just enough control to stop a purge if he keeps repressing the need to retch. The endless gagging sends oral fluid dribbling out around the base of the spike pressed to his lips. It drips off his chin to splash on his chest and hands. His shoulders and legs twitch with every stifled cough that he can’t control.

And that’s where Grimlock keeps him. Minute thrusts keep moving the blasted spike, never sitting still so he could at least _adjust_ to its thickness. Unbelievable as it is, the former tyrant would be happier if the spike were fully seated in his mouth and left there so he doesn’t keep flinching from the scrape down his throat.

The Dinobot reclines in his throne and takes a minute to just enjoy the sight and gagging sounds of Megatron spasming around his spike. He likes to watch.

Megatron hates this part so much. 

“Me Grimlock think you pet look good.”

No, he really doesn’t look good. He looks like an Insecticon impaled by a redwood tree. His owner just likes the way he weakly twitches, unable to adjust and trying not to anger his owner by thrashing free. The strings of oral fluid drooling everywhere completes the mortifying picture, and he knows it. That’s why Grimlock likes to see it smeared on his chin and smearing across his face. It’s a wet, messy sign of how all control has been taken from him.

“Me Grimlock want them Decepticons to see you.”

Oh, Primus, no. 

He doesn’t have a choice. One big hand stays on top of his helm, keeping him in place. Megatron onlines his optics and pleads with a look, choking a pained whine out. He rubs his tongue along the underside of the spike, but it’s pretty much useless. The spike’s so thick his tongue’s pinned down. 

Grimlock’s already opened the throne room to audiences. He doesn’t care about his pet’s opinion on the subject. He just wants his spike massaged in that warm, tight throat while going through the tedium of listening to whatever Decepticons bring before him to speak about. The former Decepticon leader is there to be seen on his knees, mouth full of spike and choking on it. It’s not about humiliating Megatron. The Dinobot doesn’t really care enough to torment him this way. This is entirely about Grimlock’s pleasure and reinforcing his power in the optics of the Decepticons. Megatron’s just a prop for Grimlock’s purposes, enhancing his power and reputation by accepting this degradation tamely.

That’s small consolation as he chokes on spike. His spark sinks when the door to the throne room opens behind him. 

The only dignity he can salvage at this point is to draw as little attention as physically possible. The silver mech gags on an involuntary swallow, then breathes out, calming his systems as much as he can. He relaxes his throat, shifting about to line his mouth and throat up better. The less the sensor rings click against his intake tubing, the less he gags. Grimlock allows him the small motion since it makes the angle more convenient for him to be used as a spike sleeve. 

Yes, fine. He’s a good pet. He’s not yanking away. He’s just resettling himself on his knees. His shoulders still jerk in the convulsive need to cough, but he presses his feet together to keep them from making frantic little scraping motions at the floor every time. His hands rest on the throne under his chin, as relaxed as he can get them. He concentrates on regulating his ventilation system, diverting everything he can away from the main intake through his mouth. 

He can’t escape, and he’s going to be on display. The goal’s to give as unexciting a show as possible. If he has to look broken to use, so be it. 

It pains him how accurate appearances are by now.

“King Grimlock.”

Shame stings like rust in a wound. Megatron’s shoulders hunch. Of all the Decepticons to ask audience of their leader right now, it has to be this one. Of course it does. It has to be the one who won’t be fooled by any act, because he can sense the truth.

Anger, betrayal, and resignation turn the defeated leader’s thoughts into a tornado, and he knows it’s heard. He also knows that Soundwave has approached the throne and kneels at the base of the dais the way his once-loyal follower once knelt to him. He can vividly remember Starscream in his own position, once upon a failed coup, and Soundwave knelt before him the same way. The stoic communication officer made no move to help the Seeker back then. He won’t be helping Megatron, either. 

There can only be one Decepticon leader, and Soundwave will follow the more powerful mech. That’s clearly not Megatron.

This is, to a loyal Decepticon, the rightful place of the loser. Why would Soundwave stick his neck out trying to help him?

Megatron’s almost glad for the slow roll of Grimlock’s hips. At least when his intake is spasming around the thrust and withdrawal of a spike too large for it, he can’t marinate in the humiliation of being seen like this. Megatron shuts off his optics and tries not to listen. That works about as well as challenging Grimlock does.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s heard this conversation. He can recite it from memory.

“You Soundwave ask to speak. Me Grimlock listening.”

“Soundwave: grateful for audience. Petition presented: allow body of Cassette to be smelted. Security escort to the smelter proposed.” Soundwave’s monotone has rough edges. “Petition: allow recycling.” 

Grimlock snorts and pulls Megatron more tightly to him as he gives another shallow thrust. A whining protest come from deep in Megatron’s vocalizer at the pain of his nose denting against armor. “Him catbot try to free them prisoners,” another thrust, this one more pointed because this is the particular prisoner whom Ravage attempted to free, “and admit him catbot guilty. Me Grimlock hear confession. You Soundwave say him catbot act alone. You Soundwave claim to not be part of him Starscream’s mutiny.” His voice holds ugly undertones. Everyone knows that Ravage acted on orders, but Soundwave seized the excuse to distance himself the moment it became clear Grimlock intended to execute the conspirators.

That doesn’t mean Grimlock’s stupid. He knows who fed Starscream information. “You Soundwave change you Soundwave’s mind? You Soundwave confess, you Soundwave can take him catbot’s place.” One hand rises to knock against the grayed-out Cassette nailed to the back of the throne like a grotesque head rest. At the same moment, his other hand forces Megatron yet closer. He grinds his spike down his pet’s throat, visor narrow on Soundwave. Megatron tenses up, gurgling faintly but not resisting. The flutter of his throat around the spike gets a rumble of pleasure almost as loud as the one Grimlock gives when the boxy blue Decepticon in front of him drops his helm in submission.

“Soundwave: not guilty.”

“Hmmph. Me Grimlock not think so.” 

“King Grimlock: understanding, asked for. Cassettes are distressed. Soundwave: requests end of display. Thirteen planetary years sufficient to make point. Remove body from throne as acknowledgment of service of other Cassettes, Soundwave.”

An insidious presence worms its way into the discomfort and dull hate aching in Megatron’s head. _’Request: intervene on Soundwave’s behalf. Offer: one vial of Cybertonium.’_

He coughs violently from shock and has to spend a minute recovering, lips slick around Grimlock’s spike as his gag reflex floods his mouth with excess oral fluid. It promptly drips out of his mouth and down his chin. The hot wash of fluid down the spike earns an approving pat on his helm, and Megatron onlines his optics to glare furiously at the red pelvic plating his face is mashed into. 

What? _What?!_ Does he _look_ like he has any influence on Grimlock’s decisions? He’s being used as the Dinobot’s spike warmer literally right this minute, and Soundwave wants him to risk angering his slagging master by speaking out of turn? Soundwave’s _seen_ the consequences of Megatron forgetting his place as pet and ornament. The gag and blindfold are bad enough, but Grimlock has no compunction about shutting him in the box. Megatron’s had thirteen years to learn not to provoke his captor.

He thinks that loudly at the mech kneeling behind him. Soundwave’s insane if he thinks Megatron can do anything. Unless he means Megatron to somehow magically take control of this blowjob and suck Grimlock off while simultaneously bargaining for Ravage’s body. 

Go bargain with Swoop or Snarl.

_’Attempts made to speak with other Dinobots. Loyalty to leader absolute. Megatron: only alternative.’_

Soundwave is speaking aloud, respectfully arguing for the corpse of his Cassette to be honorably melted down. Grimlock is having none of it, but Megatron pays no mind. The Dinobot’s mood is souring, and every word Soundwave says has him increasing the pace. The spike in Megatron’s throat is jabbing in and out in slippery, thick shlucks of oral fluid spilling out of his mouth. Habit has him moving his tongue and lips as much as he can, cooperating like the trained prisoner he is. 

Meanwhile, however, he’s suddenly reconsidering his position. Soundwave’s offer makes him look at what he’s doing from an outside perspective.

He’s the personal toy of the leader of the Decepticons, the self-styled King’s pet. If he’s not chained to the throne, he’s in Grimlock’s berth. Misbehavior earns him the brig, starvation, and even less Cybertonium than he’s allowed now, until the depletion threats and threat of deactivation cracks his resistance. He’s permitted back into his master’s berth only if he begs pardon earnestly enough. 

He’s powerless. But seen in the light of desperation, he is the last route possible if a Decepticon has no other way to reach the King.

Megatron has fought and surrendered. He hasn’t, until this moment, seen his position as more than total defeat. If the Decepticon’s greatest spymaster sees a link to exploit, then there is something here that Megatron can take advantage of. He simply has to figure out how. 

“You Soundwave get out,” Grimlock snarls, moving his pet’s mouth over his spike in a steady rhythm that speeds up every time stretched silver lips kiss plating. 

Megatron is busy swallowing and sucking, bobbing his head under the hand on his helm, but he sends silent acknowledgment toward the telepathic brush against his mind. The offer can earn him a vial of Cybertonium if he manages to pull it off, or he can use it to buy his way out of the box, next time. He’ll turn Soundwave over to Grimlock’s judgment if it’ll ease his life, even a little.

The Dinobot grumbles now, settling back in the throne and bucking his hips. His spike thrusts brutally hard into Megatron’s mouth. Both hands return to control the pace as climax swells the pressure tubes in his spike. The spike sensor rings drag over teeth, tongue, and throat intake, and Grimlock groans in appreciation for the tight squeeze around his length. He rocks faster on the throne, grinding the silver helm in his lap down until Megatron is twitching in restrained, uneasy writhing from the constant stimulation of his gag reflex. 

His chin and chest are covered in dribbles and drips of oral fluid, and he braces his hands against red plating to cushion his face from the impact as his owner slams him down. He’s light-headed from diverting his air intake, dizzy from the quick pace, and the hammer of pressure hydraulic systems is rattling his teeth.

Business as usual, here. This is nothing new. A buzzing hum from his vocalizer at the right time -- he doesn’t even think about how he knows it’s the right moment, anymore -- and Grimlock bucks forward in one last, violent thrust. Pressure tubes drain in a gushing burst down Megatron’s throat, spurt after spurt as hydraulic systems pump empty in a rush of jackhammer thumps. Grimlock roars through overload, bestial as his altmode.

Megatron just endures the pulsing jets of fluid emptying into his tanks. Hydraulic fluid isn’t ideal, but it processes as well as crude oil does. His fuel gauge appreciates it, even though he hates it.

The spike slides from his mouth in a flop of hard sensor rings around limp pressure tubes. He ducks his head to wipe his mouth and chin on the back of his arm before cradling the spent thing in his bound hands. His master doesn’t have to give him orders. He knows what he’s supposed to do. It’s easier to go ahead and do it rather than suffer the embarrassment of being ordered to. Slow and gentle, he licks the sensor rings through retraction. 

Above him, Grimlock basks in the aftershocks of climax, hips twitching from the twinges of pleasure roused under warm, wet flicks of Megatron’s tongue. By the time his spike’s fully retracted back into its casing, Megatron is pressed into his lap to give the tip its due in little licks. The interface panel gets a kiss when it slides back into place, as he’s been trained.

The hand petting over his helm and back tell Megatron he’s pleased Grimlock even before the energon cube is lifted from where it’s been waiting all this while. “You pet hungry?”

Less now that he has something in his tanks, but the Cybertonium shivers are worse. “Yes, my king,” he says humbly. “Please, King Grimlock, may I fuel now?”

“Mm. Me Grimlock think you pet been good. Yes.”

Hungry or not, it still takes a moment for him to open his mouth. Letting his mouth be used for his captor’s pleasure is quid pro quo in the Decepticons. He wants out of the box? He obeys his captor. He’s earned this energon.

It’s the handfeeding that’s undiluted humiliation.

The cube waits patiently. Grimlock is amused by his shame. 

Finally, Megatron sighs and lays his chin in the hand offered for it. Grimlock rumbles amusement again but refrains from comment. The corner of the cube sets against his lower lip, and the Dinobot delicately trickles Cybertonium-laced energon into his open mouth. When he pauses, Megatron obediently swallows and open his mouth for more. They’ve had thirteen years of practice; hardly any of the energon spills out of his mouth. The few drops that escape are caught by his tongue before they get far.

It knots him up inside how much he wants this. The craving for fuel mixes in with the desire to earn it and an aversion to both needs. Then the rush of Cybertonium hits his depleted body in something his shuddering, starving body can only interpret as pleasure. A moan starts and dies in his chest.

It doesn’t help that if he has to choose how he’s fed, he’ll choose this method. It’s humiliating and leaves his interface array humming from confusion, but he can tolerate it better than the other ways. The times Grimlock feeds him in the berth have taught him that there are worse feelings than conflicted pride versus pet/prisoner training. In the berth, he’s forced down to eat the energon out of Grimlock’s valve. It’s one thing to let his owner use his mouth, but to actively gnaw, lick, and nibble Grimlock’s valve to overload emphasizes how far he’s fallen. 

If he doesn’t do it with sufficient enthusiasm to get his owner off, he’s learnt that handfeeding is preferable to Grimlock’s methods of ‘inspiring’ more enthusiastic service from him. He’s sucked his meager ration from the Dinobot’s fingers during negotiation calls with the humans and, worse, the Autobots. Kneeling with his back to the screen didn’t keep him from feeling them stare. Starvation made him lick frantically at the fuel despite the observers. 

See how broken the toy is? He cleans his master’s hand on command.

Handfeeding is a better way to fuel, in comparison to that. Grimlock slides his thumb along the ex-tyrant’s mouth as the last swallow goes down. Megatron curls his lip and glares sullenly up at him. This is what Soundwave thinks is an advantage? This?

At least he’s not quite as weak anymore. The Cybertonium in the energon is just enough to ease off the shaking. As soon as his owner loses interest in petting him, Megatron retreats to where throne meets wall, sitting with his back against the wall, elbows on his knees. The rest of the Decepticons who seek audience of their leader ignore their former commander. Furniture gets less attention. He glowers at the floor and ignores them right back, only watching from the corner of his optics. Every petitioner is scrutinized for potential rebellion. He looks for allies on automatic. 

There are none. The rest of the Decepticons want to survive, too.

Soundwave’s request is the only one of significance. The longer the audiences go on, the more the petty, mundane topics begin to irritate Grimlock. Megatron knows the signs too well. Between petitioners, he casually slides away from the throne as much as the leash permits and settles into a pose of submission. Now is the time to stop scowling. Staying still and quiet is important. So is looking as meek and ready to please as he can.

Megatron’s luck being what it is, the last three Decepticons sense their leader’s mood as soon as they walk in. The first mech bluntly asks his question, accepts the answer, and gets the frag out of there as fast as he can without transforming and flying away. The second is more diplomatic and manages to get an answer from Grimlock without losing his head, figuratively or literally. Megatron watches them from under his helm and curses silently. He was hoping they would trigger Grimlock’s temper before he takes the brunt of it.

Shockwave backtracks the second he steps in the room. “A-ah, your pardon. One of my charts is -- is missing! My assistant lost the files, very unfortunate, I’ll submit everything in a report by the next planetary rotation.” 

Right, because he came all the way from Cybertron just to say he has to go back, he forgot something. Grimlock’s head cocks to the side, predatory in an extremely threatening manner not unlike his saurian altmode, and Megatron nods to himself. He presses his shoulders into the wall behind him as he prepares for the explosion. This isn’t going to be pretty. Maybe Grimlock will tire of beating the Guardian of Cybertron quickly and let his fellow Dinobots inflict some Decepticon discipline on the mech. They seem to regard it as a kind of sport.

Shockwave sweeps into a low bow as he spouts excuses, and Megatron’s optics dart between his former loyalist and their new leader. The wall is safe against his back, but --

Soundwave’s offer sits in the forefront of his mind. He’s been searching for allies, but his past allies have disappeared. New allies must be _made_ , not just looked for.

No risk, no gain. He’s had a full cube of energon. The dose of Cybertonium will last him a week or better. The worst punishment he’ll get is a beating followed by a stint in the isolation box. Starvation into statis is agonizing, but he might outlast the sentence.

He hopes, anyway.

Megatron cautiously slides forward on his knees right as his master stands. His bound hands venture out to tap on one massive leg like a kitten pawing for attention. “My king..?” He hates the ingratiating whine audible in his voice even at such a low volume.

It does the trick, however. Grimlock’s head snaps to the side to pin him under a disapproving look. “What you pet want? You pet be quiet. Me Grimlock no say you pet can speak.”

“I know, and I beg my king’s forgiveness for the interruption,” he says, channeling Starscream’s bold charm, “but perhaps Shockwave can report on the Autobot contribution to the energon shipment project, since he’s here?” His tone makes it a harmless suggestion, nothing but a question. 

Near the door, Shockwave gives him a surprised look that turns to hope. Megatron’s juggling dynamite by speaking out of place right now. Grimlock could punish them both, but the Dinobot’s more likely to take his ire out on the new target. It’s the Guardian’s turn to stay still and quiet. Worst case scenario: Dinobot chewtoy. Best case…

Grimlock stares down at the silver mech kneeling at his feet. Neither Megatron nor Shockwave dare vent.

“Hnng.” The grunt’s thoughtful, not enraged. 

Fear and the thrill of accomplishment shoot down Megatron’s backstruts in equal measures. When Grimlock throws himself back down on the throne, relief darkens Shockwave’s optic to a bloody burgundy, and Megatron gives him a meaningful look before turning his attention back to his owner. Grimlock wraps the leash around one fist and pulls, and Megatron follows the pull as a pet should. 

He presses against his owner’s leg, glancing up once he’s nestled in. Visor narrow, Grimlock studies him closely. Meeting his owner’s gaze, he rests his helm on Grimlock’s knee before lowering his optics. 

The Decepticon leader is silent for a long minute. “You Shockwave report,” he says at last.

Megatron’s keeps his mouth shut through the report. He doesn’t even turn to watch Shockwave depart afterward. He’s done the Guardian a favor. The point’s made. 

Soundwave is right: Megatron can use this. It’s only a question of how much.

And what the consequences are, because a smidgeon of Cybertonium isn’t enough to give him the strength to resist the hand laid on his helm. Grimlock makes him look up.

The abrupt impact takes him by surprise. A fist strikes him across the face with blinding speed, and Megatron doesn’t even see it coming. 

He’s thrown halfway across the throne room, reeling on his knees and unable to tell which way is up for the vital second he could have used to flee. Not that he ever gets far whenever he’s tries, but only a crazy mech stands his ground when a gigantic T-Rex stomps toward him. Panic rushes through him as survival instinct kicks him in the back of the processor. There’s just something about staring into a teeth-lined maw spouting fire that ignites the need to survive in a mech. 

He can’t count the number of times he’s been dragged to the repairbay for the Constructicons to patch up melted burn wounds. Beatings from his owner are painful, humiliating, and usually end with the box. If Grimlock wants to savage him, he can’t run, he can’t fight back, and he can’t even defend himself. Disarmed, weak, and chained, Megatron falls back on the only weapon left in his arsenal. 

“Mercy! Have mercy! Please, my king, I won’t talk without permission again!” Still dizzy, he cowers on the floor as the brute stomps toward him. The words are well-practiced. “Spare me, I beg you!” He can feel Grimlock tower over him, and helpless fear battles rage in his chest. A rough butt from the mechanical dinosaur’s head knocks him over, and he flinches as he pushes back up onto hands and knees. “Let me serve you. I live to serve you.” 

He looks up, and the rote recitation of pleas stumbles to a halt. His spark goes cold. He’s seen that stance exactly once.

The words babble out in a flood of fear: “Please, not that. King Grimlock, my king, not that. Have mercy on your servant.” His interface panels are long gone, ripped from his pelvic armor the first time the new leader of the Decepticons claimed the winner’s prize. Megatron clamps his legs together and curls to protect his valve. It’s all he can do. That, and beg. “Frag me through the berth. Take my mouth. Tie me, beat me, lock me away. I’m yours, my king. I’ve learned my place!” 

Too much defiance, too many weeks in the box, and not enough good pet behavior to counter the bad prisoner attitude. The part of his mind not damning Grimlock is promising Primus that he’ll redouble his efforts if he’s delivered from this. He’ll be a better toy. He’ll give Soundwave’s offer no more thought. He’ll stay passive and accept his defeat gracefully. Next time, Shockwave’s on his own.

Hot air snorts against the back of his neck, and Megatron’s pleading becomes more frantic. The Dinobots are large in their rootmodes, but they mass-shift. Their altmodes are preposterously huge in comparison to their rootmodes. 

Megatron has been taken by Grimlock this way one time. Once is enough. It’s more than enough.

It wasn’t even the pain. The sick violation of being taken by an _animal_ crushed him inside. He felt stained by humiliation so far beyond shame he couldn’t handle it. He was reduced to nothing but a vile rag to be used by unnatural creatures and disposed of. He can’t go through that again. 

“I’ll do anything!” he swears in a hoarse yell. “Please!”

The sound of transformation liquefies the quivering, disgusted fear that had his tanks a solid mass. Rolling, he’s on his back with his legs spread before Grimlock even gives an order. His knees bend, and he braces his feet against the floor to tilt his valve up at a better angle for his owner’s convenience. 

Grimlock looks down at him, fiercely intelligent and feral. “You pet think me Grimlock stupid.”

“No, my king.” 

“You pet think you pet can manipulate me Grimlock.”

“No,” Megatron says. Optics locked on his owner’s visor, he raises his chained wrists up out of the way above his head. He’s offering himself blatantly. “I wouldn’t do that, King Grimlock. You’re the king. My king.” He pushes, hip joints creaking as he bucks up slightly. He’ll beg if he has to. “Please, my king. Allow me to apologize.”

Grimlock’s visor narrows dangerously. The ex-tyrant splayed open on the floor knows he’s a long, painful frag away from forgiveness. 

He’s going to take Grimlock’s spike. He’s going to whimper and gasp as the Dinobot pounds into him, and he’s going to thank his captor for the privilege afterward. If Grimlock’s appeased by his efforts, Megatron will merely end up chained to the berth until he’s out of his helm with boredom from being trapped there. His owner’s whim will decide when or if he’s taken to the throne room to be displayed as a symbol of power again, but at the very least, he’ll be gagged for months as punishment for his poor behavior. 

After Grimlock overloads in him, while the pleasure’s singing through the Dinobot’s circuits, Megatron will ask for the chains and the berth. Hopefully, Grimlock will listen if he asks nicely. If not, well, he’ll probably survive. He’ll just suffer until Grimlock’s assured of his eagerness to obey once more.

And then he’ll begin the slow crawl back into his owner’s favor.

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
